The Cost

 
The Cost 

We surely need to turn away from that
Which drives us mad by slow degrees – or fast.
But in our times, that turn is hard to make.
The place, for sanity, is often last.

We lose awareness.  So the mind, confused,
Is driven into darkness.  There, it’s lost –
And seeks for light in ways that darken more.
We sin in blindness and we pay the cost.

We act from anger or its kindred causes,
And our discomfort is expressed in ways
That transfer that disturbance to another.
And so is karma wrought, as evil stays.

The one who harms is harmed by what he does,
Although this might not seem to be the case,
For himsa will extract, from each, that price
That’s marked – and which we mortals can’t erase.

We turn from madness, from the rushing mob,
But find that we ourselves are deemed as mad.
No matter.  Though the cost again is high,
It's better paid than that more lethal price.

2015 April 14th, Tue. 12:07 am
Brooklyn, New York

Note: The word himsa is the opposite of ahimsa, the a- prefix in Sanskrit being cognate to that in "amoral", "atheist", "asexual" etc.  The two Sanskrit words may be translated into English as "violence" and "non-violence", respectively.  Both these translations are, however, approximate and incomplete.
   

Sticks and Stones

    

Sticks and Stones

  

A word can be a stake to pierce a heart, 

Or serve to heal – to lift a downcast soul.

So sentences can tear a being apart

Or help to make a sundered spirit whole.

  

And some might say that words are only words –

Not weapons that can injure bodies – yet

The mind, unshielded, takes the words to heart.

Our minds affect our bodies, we forget.

  

Be gentle with your words.  The truth that’s said

With good intentions never needs to wound.

Yet words can slaughter, though the culprits’ names

In dailies’ headlines rarely are festooned.

  

2015 April 11th, Sat. 5:33 pm

Brooklyn, New York

   

Karma – Part II

   
Karma – Part II
   
If only we were free to live the life
that’s there to live, without the stress and strife
unneeded, wrought by humans wanting more,
we’d live in grace – and still in grace, we’d go.
  
From thought arises word, from thought comes deed.
Be mindful then, of stuff on which you feed.
There’s no accountant up there, keeping score,
but every action leads to actions more.

And actions, words, in turn, engender thoughts –
and so the spirals, built of endless naughts,
proceed.  So blessing and damnation flow,
as eons, lives and seasons come and go.
    
Our thoughts and words and actions make a nest
or make a snare, in which we’re caught or rest.
And when, around us, ignorance accrued
has built a prison, then we’re truly screwed…
   
There lived a trader once in Brooklyn, who
of much that’s done, around the planet, knew
to raise the shares – and work the fields of woe,
and yet, he daily took the train, to hoe.
   
But when, one day, he saw the plume that rose
from Mammon’s isle, to which the tribute flows,
he murmured, thinking back to profits’ boost,
“Alas, the birds are coming home to roost.”
   
“Alas – and yet, at last.” he stood and said,
As karma did its work of darkness dread.
He then resolved to leave his woeful toil
and sow instead the light, in blighted soil.
   
And so, he turned to teaching children then
and found in this, awhile, a bit of zen,
until he saw that there was nowhere left
that wasn’t, of what’s sacred, quite bereft.
   
He could not raise his hands to a god and cry,
“Not even here!  Oh tell me – why, oh why?”
He thought of all that he had come to know –
and then decided it was time to go.
   
He walked that evening to the river wide
and stood in darkness by the current’s side.
He almost dove, but then he heard a voice.
“There's kindness still.  Remember – and rejoice.”
   
2014 November 22nd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York
  
Karma--Part I
  
For a prose preface to Karma--Part II, please see Thanksgiving Thoughts -- On Turkeys, Teachers, Soldiers and Conscience.
   

Karma – Part I

   
Karma – Part I 
 
 

A bullet, fired in haste towards the sky,
might well descend and hit one in the eye –
but rarely will it land upon the one
who shot it upwards, glorying in his gun.
 
So also, acts we do in carelessness
might well create, around us, much distress,
yet leave us free, as if our lives were charmed.
We seldom feel the pain of those we’ve harmed.
 
For rarely do we get to realize
our actions weren’t only most unwise,
but even though we never gave them mind,
to others, what we did was most unkind.
 
What’s done, has consequence that may
be naught to us, until it’s worked its way
around our world and then returns to us.
Till then, we shrug and wonder at the fuss.
 
For karma isn’t what it’s said to be.
It often leaves the perpetrators free –
and even their descendants prosper, while
the line of victims stretches, mile on mile…
 
The world’s divided into those who rule
and those who’re ruled, and though we sometimes fool
ourselves and think that justice will be served,
the villains rarely get what they deserved.
 
So some imagine there’s a future hell
or heaven – and this dream of justice sell.
But though this breaks a true believer’s heart,
They nowhere go, who’re born and then depart.
 
So follow dharma now.  Let conscience speak.
And if you can, defend the ones who’re meek.
Be cognizant of thought, of speech and deed.
For once you’re gone, you will be dead indeed.
 
But you can leave behind a wake of pain
or one that blesses, time and time again.
Go gently on your path upon this world,
in which we each, by randomness, are hurled.
 
There’s woe enough upon this planet blue,
on which we journey, all of us.  And you
and I can choose to add to this yet more –
or leave some space, where there was naught before.
 
So leave aside ambition.  Wealth and power
and all that’s done to gain these, hour by hour,
deprive of joy – and even rob of breath –
the ones who’re used – the ones the lords forget.
 
Pursue your dreams, but not the one for fame.
Let only those you loved recall your name
when you’ve departed.  Quietly live and go,
content that you could be, not wanting more…
 
2014 November 22nd, Sat.
Brooklyn, New York

Karma--Part II 
     
For a prose preface to Karma--Part II, please see Thanksgiving Thoughts -- On Turkeys, Teachers, Soldiers and Conscience.
     

So Who Can Blame the Drunkard?

    
So Who Can Blame the Drunkard?
  

Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi is also at the 400 year old Lord
Jagannath Temple where he pulled the chariot carrying the deity.
(AP Photo/Ajit Solanki)
Image source:  http://ibnlive.in.com/photogallery/4322-5.html

 
In a world, where life is feeding on other life to live,
We still converse on ethics – and mortal sins forgive.
Some speak of a creator, who set this all in motion.
They even bow to worship, with zeal in their devotion.

But who is this creator, so cruel in intent,
Who sets the seed to growing, to serve as condiment?
The cow will tend her calf with care, but then it will be taken
And butchered in the slaughterhouse – and roasted and partaken.

And even in our species, we see there is predation,
And this has been the basis of empire and of nation.
As asses, camels, oxen are used as beasts of burden,
So also are the billions who happen to be human.

The weight that workers carry is the labor that they do,
In the farm and in the factory – including me and you.
One labors with the muscle and another with the mind.
To the one who reaps the profit, they are drudges of a kind.

The poultry and the cattle may be slaughtered for their meat,
And if, from this, they rebel, they are easy to defeat.
The peasant and the worker, they are harnessed to the wheel,
And when there is rebellion, it is met with fire and steel.

The human mind is devious – in guile, a true exemplar.
And many are the traps it sets for those of us who’re simpler.
The spider nets its prey in webs.  Our predators enmesh us.
We pay the rent and interest, and drive the cycle vicious.

Behold, the great colossus – the juggernaut erected.
Observe its gears and crankshafts, by oil-of-man protected.
It roars and whirrs and grumbles. It moves and yet remains.
It seems that it is living – with labor in its veins.

For the engines to be running, that power the contraption,
The workers must be working, providing thus the traction.
For even the petroleum, to be flowing, needs their work,
And dire is the prognosis, for the ones who try to shirk.

For what had once been local – the landlords and their fiefs,
The herders who were herded, beholden to their chiefs –
Is now transformed to global.  The feeding chains extend
From Zululand to Zurich – and through the nations wend.

So there is no escaping. The tribal lands are torn,
With newer forms of serfdom, in every season, born.
And if there is resistance that slows the flow of cash,
It’s met with machinations that burn the brave to ash.

Who labors in the mineshafts, and is, of toil, relieved?
Who tells a tale that’s honest, and yet is still believed?
Who seeks the path of reason and isn’t robbed of wits?
Who stands against the dollar and isn’t bombed to bits?

The gods that men conceived of are also put to use.
If king and god command it, who dare the twain refuse?
And so it is that Yahweh, who thundered in the wild,
Is called to aid the conquest, and man and earth defiled.

So some may need convincing that there ever was an Eden,
That the god of the commandments was distinct from him called Satan.
For the evil seems intrinsic – and the world is steeped in sin.
So who can blame the drunkard, who seeks to drown in gin?

So do not pray to Krishna, the one of cunning wiles,
And do not dance for Kali, or think that Jesus smiles.
And Allah still is raging, and Shiva is asleep –
With Brahma, he is snoring, in intoxication deep.

2014 September 16th, Tuesday
Brooklyn, New York
   

Hear and Remember

     
Hear and Remember
       
(includes verses excised from "When Will the Killing Have End?")
      
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Seven of the following fifteen stanzas were excised, for the sake 
of brevity, from the poem: When Will the Killing Have End . The 
other eight stanzas were added later.  Images have also been
added. 

Pablo Picasso painted Guernica in 1937, after the bombing, by
fascist forces, of a village with that name in Spain during its civil 
war. The image could only be fitted at a small size in the blog 
column. It is better to view it at a larger size, by clicking on the 
image. You will then see also the other images, in a click-able 
gallery.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
   
They each are blaming the other,
As the people are caught in between.
The earth and the sky and the ocean –
Do they watch, as we suffer, unseen?
  
******
  
To those who had started the cycle,
To those who have kept it alive,
We ask, "If your conscience is missing,
Do you know, that you will not survive?
 
"Your hands have been strangling the living.
Your mouths have been spouting the lie.
And yet, there is truth and there's justice.
And these will be there, though we die...

The Shootings of May Third 1808
Francisco (José) de Goya (y Lucientes)
oil on canvas, 1814; Museo del Prado, Madrid
image source: http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/goya/

"Hear, from the ones you've forgotten,
Hear, from the ones you deny.
Hear, from the ones who are dying.
Hear – and remember – our cry."

******
  
How many, today, will be dying?
How many, beloved, who're dead?
How many, to fight, will be vying?
The streets, with their blood, will be red...
        
How many, from death, will be fleeing?
How many, the children who'll die?
How many, the burned and the blinded?
How many, who'll wish they could die?
 
Our hearts, they are thirsting for vengeance,
And yet, they are breaking with grief.
Where is the road of repentance,
The light of the hopeful belief?

Who are the ones that will profit?
They know that we suffer and die.
Where, in our age, is the prophet
Who tells us the truth, not the lie?

Cambodian Refugees, Thailand
Steve McCurry
(c) Steve McCurry
image source: http://stevemccurry.com/blog/wars-children

What could have set this in motion?
How can we bring it to rest?
Who has the will and the power
And chooses to do what is best?

What do we know of the working
Of all that has brought us to this?
When people are crushed and forgotten,
Who will be speaking of this?

Yet more of these lies and this killing?
Yet more of this darkness of grief?
When will our breathing be easy?
When will we have some relief?
       
******
  
To those who had started the cycle,
To those who have kept it alive,
We ask, "If your conscience is missing,
Do you know, that you will not survive?
  
"Your hands have been strangling the living.
Your mouths have been spouting the lie.
And yet, there is truth and there's justice.

And these will be there, though we die...
      

Guernica
Pablo Picasso, oil on canvas, 1937
Museo Reina Sofia, Madrid, Spain
image source: http://www.pensarora.org/art

"Hear, from the ones you've forgotten,
Hear, from the ones you deny.
Hear, from the ones who are dying.
Hear – and remember – our cry."

******
  
The earth and the sky will remember –
The sea that has tasted our blood...
And those, who have wrought the disasters,
They will pay, for the things that they wrought...
  
 2014 June 8th Tue (stanzas 5-11) 
& June 11th Fri (stanzas 1-4 and 12-15)
Brooklyn, New York  
     
---------------------------------------------------------------
Note:  The poem, When Will the Killing Have End,
can be read by clicking here .
---------------------------------------------------------------
      

Interwoven

   

Interwoven

                  

The past, the present and the future are

As interwoven as the tribes of men.

Who posits, simply, “That and they are other!”

Forgets his birth and therefore shuns his brother.

So men are blinded and they go to war.

And yet, in battle, each can other ken,

When slaughter's done, and plunderer then finds

A little note that him, of home, reminds.

******

We leave our homes and often travel far,

We think that now is different from then,

But actions past, that rippled out, return

And at our journey's end, we homewards turn

Our ethics may no longer serve to bar

Such actions as might harm our fellow men,

But everything we do has consequences

That only are revealed in future tenses.

2013 September 1, Sat. 3:50 am..
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Joe's Demise

Joe's Demise

It was five o'clock on Monday afternoon.
The sun had not yet set, but would be setting soon.
And Joseph Lieberman was sitting at his table.
His paperwork he'd done, as best as he was able.
He turned to see the clock, and then he saw,
Out of the corner of his eye, with startled awe,
A flash more bright than sun, that seared his eye.

Joe knew, within his heart, that he would die.
And yet, he staggered up – and with surviving sight,
He saw the afternoon had turned to night.
And then, a sound, that beggared all he'd heard,
And shove, that sent him flying, like a bird,
To smash against the wall, and fall to floor,
A crumpled, bleeding heap – and Joe, no more.

He'd lived a life of toil, a life quite clean.
He'd loved his kinsfolk, friends, been rarely mean.
No sin that's grievous, no unseemly blot,
Had marred the fabric of his life and lot,
Until this day, when karma, not his own,
Worked suddenly, to crush his flesh and bone.
Whence came this evil, evil only knows.

Where Joe once lived, the wind now softly blows.

Babui / Arjun Janah
2008 October 5th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
   
Note:   This came to me today (Sunday) between approximately 5:45
and 6:05 pm, at the Dunkin Donuts shop on 18th Avenue, near 86th
Street, Brooklyn -- from where, I do not know.

The Joe Lieberman, or everyman ("Joe Schmoe"), of this tale should not be confused with the well-known Joseph P. Lieberman, U.S. senator from Connecticut, to whom he may have been only distantly related.